


No Way to Treat Superman

by cristianoronaldo



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: M/M, implied becksillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-21
Updated: 2013-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-20 21:44:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/892234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cristianoronaldo/pseuds/cristianoronaldo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cesc liberates him. He fucks Cesc because he’s bitter. And he fucks Cesc because it feels like stars are banging on his brain and telling him to never stop because, god, that feels good and maybe there’s heaven after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Way to Treat Superman

**Author's Note:**

> "superman" can refer to whomever you want in this fic bc, after thinking about it, it really can go either way, but 
> 
> ~~fair warning: 2am writing and typos

Iker thinks there’s something about mistakes that makes the whole situation a lot more bearable. He knows it’s a mistake, and he does it anyway because sometimes mistakes feel good. Sometimes they’re liberating, sometimes they’re done out of spite, and other times they’re done just because it feels good. 

 

Iker’s situation falls into all those categories. Cesc liberates him. He fucks Cesc because he’s bitter. And he fucks Cesc because it feels like stars are banging on his brain and telling him to never stop because, god, that feels good and maybe there’s heaven after all. 

 

Iker thinks there’s something about mistakes that makes them worth making. He thinks that fucking Cesc without asking about his life is okay until the day he finally does ask how Barcelona is. Cesc says it’s fine. He tugs on his lower lip with his teeth like the conversation’s  making him nervous. 

 

Iker goes back to his same mistakes because they feel good, and he isn’t hurting anyone, right? He isn’t trying to hurt anyone anyway. Just himself sometimes. Sometimes it feels good to hurt, and he’s bitter, and the person who deserves his wrath the most is himself. 

 

He fucks Cesc to feel better, but it only breeds those feelings, and after months and months of fucking Cesc like he’s medicine, Iker finds he needs him, always and completely, like the last puzzle piece that fits, only it creates a hideous and misshapen figure once everything settles into place. 

 

They aren’t right for each other. Everyone always says they weren’t right for each other. Sergio says it when he finds out. Unai says it when he guesses. Xabi is appalled and horrified. Their reactions to _IkerandCesc_ leads Iker back to Cesc. 

 

It’s a vicious circle, and every aspect of Iker’s life leads him back to some emotion that leads him back to Cesc, and he knows he’ll never get away, not completely. 

 

Cesc kisses his fingertips sometimes, after he thinks Iker is asleep. Iker lets him. It’s nice. But Cesc’s kindness has no place in their relationship. 

 

Cesc is playing with the pillow when Iker walks back in from his shower. He drops his towel and dresses, and Cesc is quiet behind him. Iker shuts his eyes briefly, finishes dressing, takes a deep breath. “So, listen, I’m sorry we didn’t get much time to talk during Confederations Cup. Things were just...” He waved his hands. “Crazy, you know?” 

 

“Talk,” Cesc repeats, scrunching his nose up like the word is confusing. His features clear once he sees Iker shrinking back into his shell. “Uh, yeah, I mean, no problem. I get it. Things were insane.” He pauses, punches at the pillow. “And sad.” 

 

“Sad?” Iker feels like reaching over and kissing his bare shoulder. “More like devastating. At least you won something with Barca.” 

 

“Yeah.” Cesc let himself fall flat on his face, and the pillow muffles his voice. “You did have sort of a shit season.” He laughs, musical like he was trying to torture Iker. 

 

Iker rolls onto the bed, letting himself smack roughly into Cesc’s body. “Rude.” 

 

Cesc peers up at him, covering half his face with the covers. He smiles, and his eyes crinkle at the edges. 

 

“You’re killing me here,” Iker says softly. 

 

+ 

 

It’s late, and Cesc rests his head on Iker’s chest. He’s half asleep, and he assumes Iker is asleep because he always falls asleep before Cesc, without a second thought. He always sleeps peacefully without even checking on Cesc, without even asking him if he still wants to be fucked as hard as he hates himself. 

 

Iker watches Cesc snuggle into his chest. He places a hand on his head, feels Cesc’s lips curve gently into his chest. He feels, for the first time in a long time, more than the weight of his mistakes. 

 

“Iker,” Cesc breathes, and it’s the weight of the name that Iker feels next. 

 

He moves away, and Cesc falls roughly against the mattress. 

 

+ 

 

Cesc doesn’t call Iker for awhile after that. He was always good at reading the little things. He could always tell when he wasn’t wanted. He disappears into the blanket of Barcelona and the flurry of activity. 

 

Iker calls once. It goes straight to voicemail. 

 

They don’t speak again until international break. Iker attacks him with a hug during training, and Cesc doesn’t shy away. He falls into the hug, and Iker brushes his hair away from his face. And it’s the most heartfelt apology he’s ever given. Cesc accepts it without a second thought. 

 

“Want to grab lunch later?” Cesc asks Gerard later because Iker is within earshot and he wants an excuse to invite him along. Iker accepts, and Gerard mysteriously backs out. 

 

Iker and Cesc find a small table for two in a dark restaurant, near the back where they can touch fingertips across the table without someone thinking anything of it. Cesc presses his hand into Iker’s without warning, and Iker likes the feel of it there. 

 

“You know I’m sorry, right?” 

 

“Sorry for what?” 

 

Iker frowns. “You don’t think I did anything wrong?” 

 

“No, you’re a cunt. I just want to hear you admit it.” There’s the flicker of a smile from Cesc, and he he drums his fingers on Iker’s palm. 

 

“Fine. I admit it.” 

 

“You admit what?” Cesc’s hand starts to inch away, and Iker pulls it back. 

 

“I’m a cunt. There. Happy?” Iker’s eyes are impossibly cold, but his hand is warm and gripping Cesc’s, unwilling to ever let go. And Cesc thinks, that’s it, that’s the problem. The disconnect between body and mind, the disconnect between what he wants to do and what he’s actually doing. 

 

“No,” Cesc answers, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. “But since when am I happy with you?” There’s the flicker of the same bitter smile Iker used to wear around David. “You don’t make people happy, Iker. You just hurt them, and take from them, and when they’ve given absolutely everything they can give, they’re empty and you throw them away.” 

 

Iker hesitates because Cesc wasn’t exploding at him. He’s sitting there with his hand in Iker’s, looking straight at him with the calmest of expressions, and telling Iker what he needs to hear. It’s downright terrifying. 

 

“I wouldn’t throw you away,” Iker says, a flicker of panic crossing his features. It’s quickly erased. His face is calm again. He removes his hand from Cesc’s. 

 

He excuses himself and leaves, and Cesc finishes the meal alone. 

 

+ 

 

Iker shows up on Cesc’s porch in the rain, and it’s really not as romantic as it seems because his hair is matted against his forehead and he’s starting to sneeze and his shoes are absolutely filled with water and he has no idea what he’s going to say. But he shows up, and that in itself is more than he had ever done in the past. 

 

Cesc opens the door, and there’s a quick, brilliant smile, and then it disappears, replaced by a quiet longing, so pained that Iker wants to turn away and find something to puke into because he 1.) hurt Cesc so fucking badly and 2.) hates seeing that kind of open emotion from anyone. 

 

“Hey,” he says. 

 

Cesc takes him in from head to toe. “Do you want to come in and dry off?” 

 

“No.” Iker’s hands are shivering in his pockets. “I mean, yes, but I have to say something first. I just. I.” He loses his nerve at the last second, stares at the ground, and scuffs his shoe against the ground. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that you deserve better. We’re not good together, and we never have been. I don’t love you, not like you love me.” 

 

The color drains from Cesc’s face, and he jumps to deny it, but Iker shakes his head knowingly like it’s too late, and it’s been too late for a long, long time. 

 

“I don’t love the way you love.” He shakes his head, and water runs down his shirt, freezing cold and shocking like he was getting baptized all over again. “But I didn’t come here to talk about love. I came here to talk about apologies. And mistakes. To tell you that you’re not one of them. And that I’m sorry.” 

 

He turns on his heel, and leaves, and he doesn’t turn around when Cesc shouts that he never loved him. 

 

 

 


End file.
